


(One) Step Closer

by incogneat_oh



Series: Tell-Tale [2]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Happy ending though, Minor description of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 10:02:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10534191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: “How's–” a stutter “–Tim?” Not the Pretender or the Replacement or that Drake kid. Or Babybird. But Tim.And somehow it’s that that has Bruce’s heart skip in his chest, makes him say, sharp, “Why?”Jason says, “I didn’t touch him." It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth, either.(A sequel toTell-Tale, but can be read independently.)





	

 

Jason hovers in the doorway to his study, looking uncomfortable. He’d half-knocked, had mostly entered uninvited, and stands leaning against the doorjamb. Eyes on the carpet and head held high.

Bruce says, “Hello, Jason.” And he sits back in the chair, tilts his head. Says, “I didn’t know you were here today.”

The overgrown boy enters, at Bruce’s motion, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “Lotta stuff you don’t know”, and refuses the nonverbal invitation to sit. And, louder, “Didn’t know I hadda get permission to be here.” It’s a challenge, a set to his jaw.

He’s always been easy to read.

Bruce says, “You know you’re always welcome, here, Jay. I’m allowed to be surprised.”

Jason just eyes him, looking for the lie. Finally, not finding it, he sighs. Some of the tension sags out of his shoulders, and he just says, “Yeah.” And “Hey, B.”

Bruce feels his lip quirk, very slightly. “Jay.”

And Jason doesn’t say anything else, just digs his sneakered-feet into the carpet with his mouth twisted down. He looks unsure, guilty. He looks, in fact, like the first (and only) time he’d brought home a D- and a note from the teacher. Back then it’d taken two full days for him to admit, late at night and tearful, that he thought Bruce was going to send him back. 

Now, well–

“What’s on your mind?”

“I can make a social visit,” Jason snaps, looking up.  

“But you’re not,” Bruce counters. Keeps his hands still and his voice level, low. He doesn’t want to break whatever uneasy truce is sometimes between them.

“No,” Jay agrees, swallowing. “I’m not.”

And things are at least calmer, if not clearer. But Bruce has always been patient.

He’s good at silence.

Then, green eyes rising to meet his gaze, “How's–” a stutter “–Tim?”

Not  _the Pretender_ or  _the Replacement_ or  _that fucking Drake kid_. Or  _Babybird_. But  _Tim_.

And somehow it’s that that has Bruce’s heart skip in his chest, makes him say, sharp, “Why?”

Jason says, “I didn’t touch him." 

It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth, either. 

"Why do you ask?” Bruce changes tack. Less sharp, still worried. “Did something happen on patrol–?”

“So far as I know,” Jay says, through his teeth. “He’s fine.”

“Then why the concern?" 

Jason crosses his arms. Tries, "Is something going on with him?”

Bruce looks up at his son, tilts his head to the side. And he says, “Not that I know of. I haven’t really seen him in a few months.” And he notes the way Jay’s hands clench into fists, carefully relax again. Repeats– “Why do you ask?”

And the overgrown boy goes back to avoiding his gaze for a moment, looking every inch like the child Bruce knew.

The silence drags on. 

“Jason, just spit it out.”

Jason tuts and swivels, runs a hand through his hair until it’s sticking up all over the place. And he says, “Jesus, fucking forget it–”

“Jay,” he says. Half-rising out of his chair. “ _Jason_. Please. I’m trying to understand." 

Jason stills, mouth curled into a frown.

And Bruce asks slowly, "What do you think is the matter with Tim?”

Then, reluctant, every word dragged out of him unwilling, “I don't– think he’s doing great. Figured he could use someone in his corner.”

Bruce feels his eyebrows rise. “Someone other than you?” he asks carefully.

“Fuck off.”

“I wasn’t aware you two even got along,” Bruce frowns.

“You don’t have to like the kid to guess he’s having problems,” Jay says stubbornly, jaw stuck out. “He’s resilient, but  _no one_  is that resilient.”

And Bruce– dismisses it. Looks back to his work. “I’ll have Dick check on him." 

Jason swears, bitter and vicious, and surprises Bruce enough to look up again. "Miss the point much, B?” he says. And turns to leave. Shaking his head. 

“Jason–”

“It… just. Do it yourself or not at all. Goddamn.” And, hand on the doorknob, he turns back. Hesitates. “I thought… isn’t the emancipation a political thing? Dick said it was WE shit. That it didn’t mean anything.”

“It doesn’t,” Bruce says.

“Even at our worst,” Jay says. “You never go a couple months without talking to me.” Then, with a tight, sad smile, “See you, Boss.”

He leaves Bruce sitting in his study, mouth open. 

 

–

 

It’s close to 1am and Bruce is sitting in Tim’s living room. 

He feels too large somehow, feels obtrusive and overgrown. It’s a spacious apartment, especially for the city, but picturing Tim here, too-thin Tim, undersized and undergrown, going about his daily activities– makes Bruce feel. Well, ridiculous. Shoulders hunched and hands folded in his lap, he tries, unreasonably, to condense his bulk and muscle. To feel less like an intruder.

It’s spotlessly clean and nicely decorated, modern and minimalist. Straight out of a furniture catalogue, hues of browns and black and just this shade of off-white. The occasional splash of red.

He could be in a display home.

There is nothing personal, nothing specific to Tim. No visible pictures, no personal art. Even the books stacked neatly on the coffee-table are non-offensive and standard-issue. They probably came with the furniture.

And, sudden, Bruce is struck with the urge to find something of Tim’s. Something recognisable and personal that belongs to his third son. Something that makes this the home of his  _child_ and not– some stranger. Which it seems, Tim is to him, now.

Bruce is antsy, shifting uneasily on the couch cushions. He doesn’t want to be nosy, doesn’t want to invade Tim’s personal space, but can’t shake the desire to  _find something of Tim’s_ , and bring it out, into the light. To make this place look lived-in. Make it look comfortable or homey or even slightly alive. (This quiet, he can hear the soft, near-undetectable whir of the mechanical fish–) 

But. By the front door, under the coat-hooks (where Bruce had– in a move almost guaranteed to make Dick laugh– pegged up his cowl and cape, wondered if it would make Tim too nervous and rethought it) in a dark patch of shadow, Bruce sees a pair of ratty chucks. Familiar. Scuffed at the toes from the nervous habit Tim’s had as long as Bruce has known him, of knocking his feet together in uncomfortable situations. The laces are knotted, tangled together. The shoes look as if they’d been kicked off there and hastily neatened. Bruce can imagine it, Tim in a hurry, still unable to leave a mess–

They look, in short, like Tim’s shoes. 

He feels a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth.

And he waits.

 

-

 

It’s almost two by the time Bruce hears keys in the door, the muted  _blip_ of Tim’s security code being accepted. And a quiet sigh before the door even opens fully. More self-indulgent than Tim usually allows.

Tim’s in an expensive, razor-sharp suit and pointed black shoes.  _Tim Wayne: Billionaire Heir,_  except around the edges where exhaustion has started to bleed into just  _Tim_ , closes the door behind him and drops his bag to the floor. 

And Tim, usually the most vigilant of his children, the most aware– 

Doesn’t notice him, for a few moments. 

There are dark circles under his eyes, a slouch to his shoulders that speaks of bone-weary tiredness, pushing too hard for too long. It’s probably an echo of Jason’s words from a few days ago, but Bruce thinks he looks lonely, and sad. 

The boy’s eyes are closed while he fumbles for the lock, shoulders drooping further, and there’s a tired, absent frown obscuring his face. His eyes flick open with effort and he starts shrugging off his suit jacket–

And he sees Bruce and sort-of freezes, all over. Deer-in-headlights, possum reflex. Mouth toppling open as Bruce rises from the sofa.

But Tim’s expression shutters, goes blank. And he doesn’t relax so much as slump down again, eyes falling to the floor. He twitches, a bit, out of the jacket and slings it on a hook by the door. He says mechanically, “Bruce, hi. I didn’t know you’d–”

And Bruce says, “You’re bleeding.” Eyes narrowed on the dark brown splotch on the fold in Tim’s shirt, the blood dried and stiff against white cotton.

Tim doesn’t even acknowledge the words, looks exhausted and too old for his age when he says, “Look, it’s– whatever it is, I’m about 10 minutes away from falling into a dead-sleep, and I have to get up, early, you know, meeting. So, what you want me to do, it’s– if you could, write it down please and leave it where I’ll see it, or, email or you– you could phone, if it’s, you know, really specific. And I’m happy to do whatever you need, I just– tomorrow, please. After. If that’s okay.” 

Bruce falters, feels his own mouth curl into a frown. “I’m not here for a favour.”

( _That’s– why you think I’m here? You think I need something from you?_ )

Tim, blankly, “You’re not?” And then, panicked, eyes raking over his unsullied suit, “What’s– is, is someone–? Are you hurt?”

“Everything’s fine,” Bruce says, taken aback, and Tim looks unconvinced. His teeth dig into his bottom lip so hard it looks painful. He assures the boy, “I was just stopping by. Thought I’d wait around and say hello.”

“Sorry,” Tim says, looking away, running a hand through his hair. “I was– work. Working late, I mean.” His eyes, dark, dart to his face and away again. “There’s, a lot to do, and with Tam away this week…” his voice trails off. 

“You’re bleeding,” Bruce says, again. Because it seems important. And the most easily addressed of… whatever problems Tim’s currently looking at.

And Tim glances down, says, “Yeah. I, bust some stitches. I didn’t have a spare shirt at the office.”

“Take off your shirt.”

“What?” 

“Now, please,” Bruce says, as patiently as he can manage, because the boy’s looking skittish underneath the blankness of his expression. His tiredness is showing through his tells, the ones he’s long learned to hide, and Bruce wonders what it is that has him so on edge.

He hopes it isn’t him.

“The sooner I check you out, the sooner you can sleep. You look like you could use it.” And he goes into the kitchen, uninvited, to dig out Tim’s first-aid kid from above the pantry. “Couple long days, I’m guessing?”

“Yuh-yeah,” Tim says, and when Bruce glances back, he’s fumbling with the buttons on his dress-shirt. Watching him. “It’s mostly WE stuff, you know. Everything, um, snowballs, and it takes a miracle to get the board to move on anything.”

“Sadly true,” Bruce comments, from the sink. Rinsing his hands, the gauntlets tucked into his belt. Then he moves forward, and Tim looks away. He’s in an undershirt and dark slacks, dark brown splotches over his left side. He says, “C’mon, Tim.”

“I–” he says. “You don’t have to. I can, I’ll sort it myself. You can go.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bruce says, sets the first-aid kit on the kitchen table, along with some warm water and a cloth. “I’m right here. Lose the shirt and sit down.” It’s just shy of an order, and Bruce should feel bad for the way Tim follows it automatically. 

He doesn’t.

The wound is a gash down one side of his ribcage, long and thin and almost wrapping around to his back. The stitches would have been neat, before they tore through the skin, and the dried, cracking smudges and trails of blood make it look worse than it is. Probably.

Bruce shifts his chair until he’s sitting beside the boy, who won’t meet his gaze. He can’t help but notice the prominent bones in Tim’s back, the sharp line of his ribs under the skin. He looks–

“You’re underweight, Tim,” Bruce says, and it comes out surprised and a little harsh. 

The teen flinches at his touch, or at the criticism. Bruce isn’t sure which.

And he ducks his head, says, “I– got sick. Before. I’m handling it.”

Bruce just  _hmms_ and squeezes the shoulder under his hand, notes the way Tim’s muscles are tensed and stiff. The line of his jaw, grit tight. He lets go of Tim to slide on a pair of rubber gloves, and he stays precisely still, eyes downcast.

“This will sting,” Bruce warns, wetting the cloth. And he starts to clean the skin around the wound. Tim’s expression doesn’t change. He murmurs, “Lean forward for me,” to get better access, and Tim follows the instructions and says nothing. He looks uncomfortable, tipped forward in the chair, and Bruce steels himself–

And cups the back of Tim’s head, guides him forward to rest his forehead against Bruce’s armoured shoulder. He ignores the way Tim inhales sharply, the sudden tenseness all over, continues to dab over the stitches. He rubs one gloved hand gently over Tim’s back, as soothing as he is curious. He wants to relearn this boy, his once-Robin, the boy who lived like a ghost in his shadow and his home. 

Wants to relearn the ridge of Tim’s spine and the sharp arch of his shoulder-blades, the too-thin nubs of bone at the tips of his shoulders, the hollows between each rib. The soft hair, still child’s hair, too long and  _when was the last time I saw you, Tim_? 

But it doesn’t work that way, can’t be that easy, and so Bruce keeps his broad palm flat against the boy’s back, under the guise of keeping him still. But Tim’s always been obedient.

He rinses out the bloodied cloth again, one-handed, and keeps Tim against his shoulder. Fancies he can feel the puff of Tim’s breath through the kevlar, though he knows it’s not true. He looks down at the expanse of Tim’s pale, scarred back, feels the rabbit-quick pulse under his fingers. 

A lot of the marks are new, pink and puckered and unfamiliar. And Bruce wonders, for what might be the first time, exactly what Tim’s life is like these days. Without him, away from the Manor and Alfred. 

An emancipated minor. No-one’s child. 

With his hotel-home and his mechanical fish, his very own mausoleum.

And he starts to think he maybe understands what Jason was getting at.

“How’d it happen?” Bruce tries, because Tim is still stiff and uncomfortable under his hands. (But then, he’s never known how to talk to Tim.)

“I was careless,” Tim says, after a pause. “It was my own fault.”

And Bruce thinks  _that wasn’t the question_ but says nothing, just keeps one hand on Tim’s bare back, feels the stutter of his breath through the warm skin and his glove. He  _hmms_ a second time, begins applying disinfectant in slow, steady motions. Tim’s pulse gradually starts to settle under the weight of his palm.

The stitches are too close to the surface, but Bruce says nothing. For Tim to have even stitched this gash himself, with it’s location–

He shifts against Bruce’s shoulder with a barely-there sigh, relaxing in increments.

He barely twitches when another stitch tears, and a fresh trickle of blood runs down his side. Bruce murmurs “Sorry,” and Tim says, “ ‘s fine,” and “thanks”, because he’s always polite.

And Bruce feels the tickle of soft hair against his bare throat, warm gusts of breath painting his collarbone. Tim’s muscles are starting to go limp in a slow, slow process that Bruce thinks is more to do with exhaustion than a lack of tension. But there’s nothing he can do about that.

Tim stays there, pressed into the kevlar plates that cover his shoulder, long enough for Bruce to disinfect and re-suture the slash. If it were one of his other children, Bruce thinks, starting to bandage it. The silence would probably be awkward.

But silence is par for the course, between Tim and himself. While there’s  _something_ off with Tim, (just very slightly different, like he’s too tired to be himself which he knows seems  _ridiculous–),_ it’s somehow comforting to think that this much, at least, hasn’t changed. 

And Tim’s been still for so long, so quiet with his soft and even breaths, that Bruce thinks he might have fallen asleep here, half-tipped out of a kitchen chair with his face pressed into his once-adoptive father, dried blood at the top of his expensive suit pants. He wonders, for a moment, what he’ll do– how to shift Tim without disturbing him–

Only, the second he’s done with the bandages, Tim sits up and pulls away, sweeping his hair off his forehead and ducking to avoid Bruce’s gaze. Shrugging off Bruce’s hand and sitting back in the chair.

Bruce allows the distance. But it seems to him that Tim is much further away than the few feet that separate them. Perhaps out of reach entirely.

And Tim still won’t meet his eyes, something like– what is that, guilt? shame?– written on his face. A slight bitterness to his lip that has nothing to do with the pain in his side.

Bruce says, “Tired?” and tries to let warmth leak into his tone, tries to convey his overwhelming fondness for the boy in front of him in that single word.

It doesn’t work.

Tim startles at his voice, instead, accidentally meets his eyes for a full few seconds. Says,  “Y-yeah.” And, “Look, thanks for– this,” gestures to his side. “You really didn’t have to.”

“Happy to help, Tim,” Bruce says, simply. Because it’s true. And, “You should probably get some sleep. I can see myself out.” 

Tim jerks his head once in a nod, stands stiffly to start packing the first aid kit away.

“I’ll do that,” Bruce tells him. Offers a smile, but Tim just looks confused. He says, “You could use the rest, Tim.”

“I– yeah,” he says, still off-guard, scritches his hand through his hair and looks away. Meets his gaze again almost guiltily. “I– just. Leave it? I’ll sort it out in the morning.”

And under Bruce’s firm, slightly amused gaze, flush traveling down his neck, he gathers up his ruined shirt and takes a few steps toward his room, exhaustion seeping through every pore. 

“Tim,” Bruce says, and he stops sudden, an awkward, abortive motion. Shoulders going tense. He half-turns back, question on his face. Bruce thinks about pulling out, about all the ways he can say some pleasantry here instead of; “You’d– tell me, if something was wrong. Wouldn’t you?”

Tim swallows, and Bruce watches the bob of his Adam’s apple. He says, “I don’t know what you’ve heard. But I’m going by the book. I’ve followed every rule–”

“That’s not–” he breaks off, feeling oddly exposed under Tim’s blue gaze. He says, instead, “I meant you personally, actually.”

The boy’s jaw drops, and naked surprise is evident for two full seconds. Then his mouth shuts audibly and he looks away, says, “I’m fine, Bruce." 

He vanishes in the near-dark of the hallway.

And he stops, where Bruce can barely make him out, pale-skin shadowed to dark-grey, the barest glint of light on his eyes. Speaks so quietly Bruce thinks he might have imagined the– “It was nice to see you, Bruce.”

Bruce watches the empty hall long after Tim’s bedroom door has closed.

 

-

 

Tim stumbles out of his bedroom the next morning, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. His eyes are dull and half-lidded, hair stuck up every which way. Faded flannel pyjama pants and a wrinkled t-shirt, worn so thin the white bandage is visible underneath. His feet are bare.

His shoulders are loose and relaxed, still sleepy, one hand absently tangled in the hem of his shirt, the other dangling at his side.

He halts, at the edge of the living room carpet, toes brushing the edge of the rug. Frowns, a bit confused, at the sight of Bruce standing by the kitchen counter. Eyes still clouded with sleep. 

And his gaze in on Bruce, absent, head tilting to the side. He smothers another yawn, blinking sluggishly–

“ ‘morning, Tim,” Bruce says, and just like that, Tim’s more awake, eyes going wide and taking a half-step back. He says, “I stayed over, I hoped you wouldn’t mind.”

And Tim still watches, without blinking, eyes briefly darting to the neatly folded blanket Bruce had left on one side of the couch, a pillow atop it. Then he looks back to Bruce, in borrowed sweatpants and an old t-shirt. (The Batsuit is neatly folded under Tim’s regulation coffee-table.) 

Bruce continues, “I got the clothes from your dresser. You were pretty dead asleep at that point.” And, smiling slightly, “I’m assuming these belong to Jason?”

Tim looks mildly horrified. (Probably, Bruce thinks. Wondering if he’s going to bring up the broad collection of old t-shirts belonging to Dick Grayson he’d found in a drawer.)

(He doesn’t intend to.)

“Buh,” Tim says, hands twitching at his sides. 

Bruce feels his eyebrows raise, says, “…Tim?”

“Buh,” he says, again. “But– the couch. The couch is lumpy.” 

And  _oh_ , Tim seems to be stuck on a loop. He’s never been at his best in the mornings, though Bruce can practically see his panic rising. It’s a little odd, even by usual Tim-standards, but– it’s workable. 

So Bruce holds up his hands, says, “I can’t figure out your coffee machine for the life of me.”

That does it. Tim’s mouth closes, and he ducks his head, shuffles into the kitchen. He moves past Bruce, towards his fancy Italian coffee machine, hands working automatically. Adjusting the dials and knobs, one hand fumbling for a tupperware full of fresh coffee grinds. Absently taking the portafilter from Bruce’s hand. 

But now, a little more awake, initial surprise wearing off, Tim’s shooting him these curious glances from under his lashes, questions unasked and heavily implied. “Brazilian okay?” his voice is a mumble.

Bruce just nods, leans in close like he gives a shit about how to use Tim’s coffee machine, like he isn’t just using this as an excuse, and puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder.

He doesn’t quite flinch, just looks up at Bruce with a question on his face. 

Bruce gives him a smile, a small one (the ones Dick assures him are  _only in your eyes, Bruce, goddamn. You’d think for someone with such good muscle control, expression wouldn’t be so beyond you–_ ), says, “It just… feels like it’s been awhile, since I’ve seen you.”

And it comes out a little sadder and more earnest than his intention, judging from the naked surprise on Tim’s face. Then he ducks his head again, shoulders curling inward under Bruce’s hand, and focusses intently on the coffee machine. A serious frown on his face.

It isn’t until the coffee’s done that they break the silence, Tim mumbling, “I’ve, uh. I’ve got work, I’d better–” 

Suddenly sheepish, Bruce looks into his coffee. Clears his throat, and scratches his head. “Ah, about that, Tim–”

“What did you–?” He’s suspicious, much more alert with the addition of coffee, looking up at Bruce from under his bird’s-nest bed head. 

“Brucie Wayne is very eccentric,” Bruce starts, a little defensive. Tim’s eyebrows shoot up, and he continues, “I, uh, called in and had your meeting rescheduled for Tuesday next week.” 

Tim’s mouth topples open, and Bruce says, “You could use a break. And it’s been awhile since Brucie’s done anything noticeably ridiculous.”

Tim snorts into his coffee, says, “Yeah, ‘s good for your image.”

Bruce’s heart warms at the familiar sound, the not-quite laugh, a little awkward yet entirely unselfconscious. He can’t remember the last time he heard it.

And the boy shakes his head, mumbles, “You can’t just call the board and do what you want–”

“I think I already did,” Bruce says.

Tim ducks his head further, hiding what must be a smile. 

So Bruce bumps his shoulder gently against Tim’s, says, “Seeing how you’ve got some free time today. I’m sure Alfred would love it, if you came home for a bit.”

Tim glances up, surprised, says, “Uh– I–”

“Please.”

**-END-**

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/32089573690/one-step-closer)


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